’Tis true, ’tis day; what though it be?O wilt thou therefore rise from me?Why should we rise, because ’tis light?Did we lie downe, because ’twas night?Love which in spight of darknesse brought us hether,Should in despight of light keepe us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;If it could speake as well as spie,This were the worst, that it could say,That being well, I faine would stay,And that I lov’d my heart and honor so,That I would not from him, that had them, goe.

Must businesse thee from hence remove?Oh, that’s the worst disease of love,The poore, the foule, the false, love canAdmit, but not the busied man.He which hath businesse, and makes love, doth doeSuch wrong as when a maryed man doth wooe.